The Mexicans I Know: Open Letter To Donald Trump

The Mexicans I know are mothers, grandmothers, daughters and sisters, fathers, grandfathers, sons, and brothers; they have walked miles and miles in scorching desert past scorpions and vultures, past the bones of their cousins and the discarded dreams of those who didn’t have the pesos, the fortitude, or the audacity to strike out on the promise of a college diploma for their daughters, a plate of beans for their aging parents, the hope of wrapping arms around a mother or father they haven’t seen for years because barbed wire and guard dogs and walls and lies have been constructed in order to divide us.

The Mexicans I know work night shifts in office buildings cleaning our toilets, and day shifts for less than minimum wage, in our fields picking our grapes and our corn, in our restaurants so we may have food on our tables…